Between The Sand And Stone
by Scout Girl
Summary: George watches Mitchell sleep. Because he's not always going to be around to do it. And he owes Mitchell. Crossposted to LJ. George/Mitchell


**Title**: Between The Sand And Stone  
**Pairing(s): **George/Mitchell  
**Rating: **PG  
**Disclaimer: **Being Human belongs to the brilliance of BBC3  
**Warnings: **Post Episode 6 ( but oddly with Old!Mitchell's voice)  
**A/N:** This is now offically the best fic that I have ever written, and my favourite at that. Not bad for a midnight effort. This fic was inspired by The Calling song: Wherever You Will Go because I thought that it really expressed their relationship. Because however much George loves Mitchell, he's still going to die.  
**Summary:** Runaway with my heart, Runaway with my hope, Runaway with my love...

Between The Sand And Stone.

George is watching Mitchell sleep, it's ironic. A sleeping vampire. It's a beautiful thing. Mitchell's hair is dark, a black wave tossed sea across the white expanse of his skin and pillow. Although his eyes are closed, George can see the imprints of them on his eyelids. They are black. And his fangs are poking out; the sharp tips of them are showing though his parted lips. He is a vampire. Eternal. If death is like sleeping, then Mitchell sleepwalks for eternity. That is no life, not even for a demon. To go through everything like that. With no one.

George sighs and leans against the doorway. Maybe Annie will stay with him, forever, her bubbly personality contrasting to Mitchell… too contrasting, perhaps. But Mitchell needs someone, and the thudding of his heart reminds George of his stark mortality. When he died, he's not coming back. In any form. And it's not fair. Mitchell had become so human. George had even found himself calling out to 'John' when in pain and haunted by what he'd done. And Joh-Mitchell always comes, holds him, protects him.

So George stands in the wee small hours and watches Mitchell by moonlight. And oh but he's beautiful. His hands are clenching the coverlets and he's not even free at night. The shadows on his face are dark, like a mask, hiding his true self from the world. Because he's not a vampire, deep down, he's a soldier, a man desperate to do good. He saved George. And now George is going to leave him. Maybe not for five, six years, but he will go. He doesn't want to. He wants to stay with Mitchell, he'd do anything for that. Wherever Mitchell wanted him, needed him. It would be done. But not by him. He can't. Who will replace him, when the day comes? Another werewolf? A rarity in Bristol. George hopes not, he doesn't want to be replaced like that, as if expendable. But if he goes to the vampires would it have been worth trying?

George wants to be crude at times, make Mitchell his, in front of the vampires. Mark him like the dog he is. But time passes and marks fade, lives end, the immortal live on still. A photograph of a past time, condemned never to change, never to live, never to die.

George removes his glasses, to clean them on the edge of his dressing gown. And although he's going to die -he's known since the creature -Tully- leapt at him- maybe his… love for Mitchell could remain. With Mitchell at least. His life might still go on in Mitchell's mind. The thought is oddly satisfying, as Mitchell whimpers in pain and moves in his sleep so that George can no longer see his vamparic features, only black hair. The idea of George could live with Mitchell for as long as John existed: for all of time. It calms him and he reaches out to touch, to soothe. But he doesn't he can't disturb this moment, this serenity. Beauty in death. No one could deny the sight and George is neither strong not scared.

He replaced his glasses, the sharper clarity shows the greyscale the moonlight brings and there is nothing unnatural here. Just a man sleeping through nightmares of things he should never have seen. And a watcher determined to keep him safe, to impart love, in the short space he has left.

George dreams of the Somme, an army of wavy haired soldiers and disproportionate teeth. He is woken by a hand on each shoulder and the blissfully humanesque eyes of John Mitchell looking into his own.

"You were calling for me?"

It could be statement or question. It's not important though. Not anymore.

_If I could, then I would, I'll go wherever you will go, way up high, or down low, I'll go wherever you will go- The Calling_


End file.
